


The cake

by ColorfulStabwound



Series: A Million Little Pieces [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albius - Freeform, Baking, First Person, Harry Potter Next Generation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-28
Updated: 2014-08-28
Packaged: 2018-02-15 04:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2216211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColorfulStabwound/pseuds/ColorfulStabwound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scorpius wants to bake a cake and he wont take no for an answer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The cake

**Author's Note:**

> All random television references came out of my own noggin. 
> 
> Inspired by my lovely Albie muse and cohort in all things literary, Unkissed.
> 
> For Albus, our favorite boy in the band.

Albus Severus is a horrible influence on me.  

 

At least, that is what my father says every opportunity he gets (Actually he says “that **_Potter_** boy” and wrinkles his nose, but you get the idea).  I’m not sure that my mother actually remembers meeting Albus (She has. Several times.). Although she would staunchly disagree on the grounds that if my father said it, it’s absolute rubbish.

 

This all started with a muggle telly vision of all things, and honestly I don’t understand what the big deal is. Albus has one in his family room and I’ve recently become utterly fascinated with it. Albus’ dad says it was a ‘warming house’ present from someone whose name I can’t recall, although I’m not quite sure how it is actually supposed to _warm_ anything, much less a house. Every time I ask Albus about this seemingly important bit of information he dissolves into a fit of giggles.

 

Must be a ‘Potter thing.’ That’s something else my father says a lot, although he is never giggling. Not even a little bit.

 

There are the tiniest people inside of the telly vision that talk about all sorts of different things. My favourites are the cooking shows. There is a scary Scottish man who shouts a **lot** and calls people donkeys; I don’t like him very much, he reminds me of grandfather Lucius. There are others though, and I am not ashamed to admit that I’ve spent entire summer afternoons fixated on them, sprawled out on the floor rug or on the sofa at the Potter home with Albus (who is not nearly as enamoured with the telly vision as I, but indulges me all the same).

 

“Let’s bake a cake.” I announced one lazy afternoon; Albus sitting at one end of the sofa and me lounging over the rest, head resting on his thigh. My eyes were utterly fixated on the two women on the screen who were making a cocoa sponge cake and making it look like it was the easiest and simplest thing to do in the entire world.  When Albus didn’t respond I shifted my attention to him, rolling onto my back to peer up at him curiously. 

 

“I want to make a cake.” I repeated and nodded my head enthusiastically. 

 

He peered down at me from beneath fallen sections of dark hair and his expression was impassive at best. “My mother will kill us if we mess up her kitchen.”

 

I frowned up at him and my rebuttal was already leaving my throat.  “But your mother loves me, she’d never kill me. Plus, I’m sure my father would have something to say about my untimely demise.” I pointed out the facts and smiled very sweetly up at him, my fingers curling inconspicuously into the denim that covered his legs.

 

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s not going to work.” Is what he said, but the liquid fire behind his green gaze said otherwise.

 

My smile only grew at his response; if there was one thing I was extremely good at, it was getting my way with Albus Severus. This was **so** going to work.

 

“Look at you what way _Albie_? I just want to make a cake. It can’t be terribly hard. We’ve just watched an entire show on how to make one.”  Each word was enunciated with just a hint of a pout and my mouth tugged down dramatically at the corners as I peered up at him with the innocent look I generally unleashed on my grandmother when I wanted something beyond my normal reach.

 

His mouth twisted and he tried to look away and failed. “Can’t you wait til we’re at **your** house?”

 

“But I want to make it now.” I whined, a single fingertip tracing nonsensical patterns on his shin.

 

I flopped over onto my stomach and pushed myself up onto my knees and leaned very close to him, still frowning. “Please Albie?”

 

I wound my arms around his neck and buried my face in the warm curve of skin where his throat met his shoulder, inhaling the subtle mix of scents that were inherently his own and I waited. He was warm under my touch and I clung to him firmly and the gentle press of fingertips against my back did not go unnoticed.

 

Eventually his chest heaved with a resigned sigh and I grinned triumphantly against his skin.  “I promise we’ll clean up any mess before she gets home.” I murmured as I lifted my head to smile at him and then I kissed him gently before we untangled and got up.  

 

“Or we can blame the mess on your brother. “ I added brightly, exchanging a mischievous grin with him as we made our way to the kitchen. Albus seemed to like this idea quite a bit and brightened considerably and even though I knew deep down that he would never _really_ blame Jamie for our mess, I loved him for entertaining the idea—Even for a moment.

 

In no time the Potter kitchen had successfully been transformed from its usual pristine state to something that resembled the aftermath of a blasting hex. There was white cake flour covering pretty much every surface; even Albus, which may or may not have been my doing.

 

There was a stack of soiled bowls and spoons teetering precariously at one end of the countertop and somehow one of the chicken eggs had escaped its container and met its end on the floor.

 

“You have to mix it by hand. No magic.” I peered over his shoulder down at the bowl, eyes wide with anticipation.

 

Albus sighed dramatically and set aside his wand and got to work on the batter, mixing it with slow and methodically even turns of the wooden spoon. When he was done we poured it into a cake pan and Albus pushed it inside the oven while wearing a funny silver glove that he said protected his hand from burning. 

 

“Now we wait.” I murmured, gaze fixed on the oven still. Albus suggested we clean up the mess but I had better ideas still—I never said _when_ we would clean up, so long as we beat Al’s mother, we would be okay.

 

Albus hopped up on the counter and the way his feet dangled above the ground made me smile. I could completely picture him sitting just like that as a child, watching his mother in this very kitchen. The idea of sharing such a moment with your mother might have been foreign to me, but I understood it and could even see its possibility thanks to him.

 

His gaze swept around the room and he shook his head and looked mildly upset. “This kitchen is wrecked. My mother is going to lose it.”

 

“She’s not going to lose anything. I said we’d clean it up.” I remarked casually, rounding the counter and stepping between his dangling legs and right into his personal space.

 

“You promised.” He corrected and grinned wryly at me.

 

“And a Malfoy never breaks a promise.” I murmured dryly against his mouth, palms flattening on the floured countertop on either side of his seated form; fingers splayed out like a fan.

 

I can feel his skin puckering from the ghost of my touch and I smirk, pale gaze watching him openly. “Is that right?” He murmurs and he lifts a brow as if he’s seriously questioning me.

 

“This one doesn’t.” I amend and then I seal my mouth over his and effectively distract him with kisses.

 

When we part I am sucking his bottom lip into my mouth and he doesn’t even notice that I’ve lifted his wand from the counter beside him. His cheeks are flushed high and red and the way the contrasting color infuses his pale skin twists an invisible coil inside of me that is constantly tightening whenever I am around him.

 

Before he can catch his breath or protest I fire off a couple of quick spells and send the soiled cookware to wash itself. The counters magically free themselves of debris and sticky drips and the broom gives the entire room a good once over.  When I hand him back his wand he’s shaking his head and giggling breathlessly and tugging me closer to him by the front of my shirt.

 

“I stand corrected.” He murmurs around fading laughter and his smile is like a thousand pin pricks in my heart.

 

 

Before I can tick off some sort of smarmy reply he’s kissed me and I can’t help but notice the subtle nuances in his kisses and mine. When I kiss him I can feel him melt and mold to my touch as if he is liquid and I am a conduit and when he kisses me it’s like being set ablaze by wildfire that devours everything that I am.  My internal ponderings are interrupted by a warm slide of tongue against my teeth and before I know what hits me I’m burning up.

 

The sound of the oven buzzer demands our attention and we part, breathless and glassy-eyed.  “It’s ready!” My voice is like a breathy squeal and I can’t help but clasp my hands together as Albus hops down from the counter to retrieve the cake.

 

“It’s a bit lopsided, isn’t it?” Albus is tilting his head and squinting at our cake and although I might agree that it indeed **is** a bit lopsided, I am more excited than Graham Norton that time he had Bill Murray and Hugh Bonneville on his couch. (Gratuitous telly vision talk)

 

“Now we have to frost it.” I say instead and grab for the bowl of chocolate orange frosting, wielding my spatula like a cooking show pro.

 

Albus’ mouth twisted into a grin and he set the cake down between us. “I think you and my telly need a break from one another.”

 

I raised a brow at him and puddled a glob of frosting on the top of the cake. “Jealous?”

 

He scoffed, busying himself with a second glob of frosting. “No.”

 

“Pity, I bet it would make a great song. “ I say offhandedly, shrugging a shoulder as I smear frosting over our cake.

 

Albus dissolves into a fit of giggles that is infectious and before long the frosting globs are left to ooze over the sides of the cake and we laugh like it’s the end of the world. 

 

Between barely stifled laughter I sing replaced lyrics to the last song I had listened to that day.  “Scorpius loves Tellys and boysssss.”  Which was utterly fitting, of course.

 

“Love is not a choice.” Albus cuts in on queue and that pretty much does us both in.

 

The cake is momentarily forgotten and we sink to the floor in a puddle of tangled limbs and giggles. I push him down onto his back and scramble up onto his middle, sitting myself comfortably in the middle of his chest.  His skin is mottled red and pink and he shakes every so often from subsiding laughter. He’s beautiful and perfect and indulgent and every little thing that I never knew I desperately needed. My smile falters and I find myself chewing absently on my lips. We had come a long way from the boys we once were and despite all of the fumbles and unspoken struggles, here we were. Against the odds; his and mine.

 

“Never did I think that I, would be caught in the way you got me.” I’m not singing this time, but the words still hang there like a song, undeniable and vibrant in the quiet that presses in from all sides. The moment has shifted yet again and this so perfectly sums up our lives.

 

 

“Let’s have some cake.” He breathes and he sits up with me still atop, his hands carefully scooping me up around the middle.

 

I can tell there are so many more words that he doesn’t say, I always see them, even though I don’t hear them. I may not know precisely what they are, but I realize their intent. He knows he can tell me anything, even if he rarely does.

 

“Cake.” I repeat, kissing him quickly on the corner of the mouth before scrambling to my feet and tugging him up with me. “Thank you for indulging me, Albie.” I lean over and whisper in his ear and he smiles and for just a moment there is nothing but us.

 

And cake.

 


End file.
